


Impermanence

by charcoalmink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Riding Crop, S&M, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:30:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalmink/pseuds/charcoalmink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds Sherlock's riding crop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impermanence

“Sherlock, what is this?”

A thin, shrill whistling. Displaced air. Rapid movement. Rod, then-- not very long. Faint slapping. Texture: leather. Ah.

“My riding crop.” Sherlock answered without looking, his gaze trained steadily through the lens of the microscope. He turned the dials, focusing on the blood samples he’d managed to weedle (force) off Lestrade.

“What’s it for?” He heard John shuffling about, testing it, waving it in the air. He detected the curiosity-- but there was an underlying inflection he couldn’t quite decipher.

“A crop is often used for horse training. It is also widely regarded as a device to exercise dominance in erotic subculture.” He adjusted the diaphragm, frowning slightly when it didn’t quite move as smoothly as he’d have liked.

There was silence (contemplation). Less movement (also contemplation. Possible: surprise and/or disbelief. Extrapolated information from previous experience with John’s reactions). Sighing, Sherlock turned, pulling the glass slide out from beneath the metal clips.

“What?” He was appalled to realize his voice had taken on a distinctly defensive tone. He crossed his arms, glowering at John, who was running his hand down the length of the thin rod. His fingers paused at the tapered end.

“Erotic subculture?” John raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock exhaled loudly and dramatically. “Yes, John. You can’t possibly be this vapid. Master and Slave. Sadism and masochism. Domin--”

“Okay, okay! No, I got it. All that-- that bondage business.” Though John sounded and appeared flustered, his hands remained steady. He stared at the tool in his hands, absently scratching at the leather.

Sherlock tilted his head, curious. John’s behavior was odd. _Interesting. Fascinating._ He narrowed his eyes and stood abruptly. He took long strides forward until he stopped before the doctor.

“Sherlock?” John looked up and promptly fell silent as his jaw was commandeered between Sherlock’s long fingers. His face was roughly jerked up and forward, forced under the scrutiny of the other man’s concentrated stare.

“Your heart rate has elevated and you’re experiencing a shortness of breath.” Sherlock paused, his fingers pressed right at John’s racing pulse. “Your core temperature has increased as well.” He dropped his hand. “You’re aroused.” He sounded surprised and confused.

“Or I could have coronary artery disease.” John licked his lips, though he didn’t move away. “Everything you just listed is symptomatic of a heart condition.”

“A man of your health and physique? Please,” Sherlock scoffed. “And your pupils are dilated,” he added.

“I--” John paused, thinking. Sherlock crossed his arms and looked haughty. “Yes, fine. Okay.”

Sherlock, if possible, looked even more inquisitive. “You’re aroused from a conversation about a preference for eroticized power play, yet your circumvention of the subject suggests that you’re not engaged in it.”

John made a face. “Do you have to analyze absolutely everything? And can we leave my sexual proclivities out of it?”

“From what I understand, sex is only an aspect of BDSM. It is the division of power and submission that is--”

“And _you’re_ familiar with it?” John’s eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline.

“I’ve done research,” Sherlock said shamelessly.

“Of course you have.” John lifted the crop so it was suspended between them. “And have you used it?”

“Yes.” And John believed him, because Sherlock didn’t have any reason to lie about anything unless he was on a case or he was talking to Mycroft. And even then, it was only to ensure the outcome of his choosing.

“I see.” John whipped it around curiously in the air a couple times, watching Sherlock’s gaze follow it with interest.

“Do you... want to use it again?” John said slowly.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered immediately-- and soon they were racing up to John’s room (safer, less cluttered, and most importantly: closer).

John reached the top of the landing first. His heart was racing-- and not entirely due to the sudden bout of activity. His skin felt hot and feverish (annoyingly enough, Sherlock was right) and his clothes felt much too small for his body.

He heard Sherlock slow to a stop behind him, and John felt the first, tiny hints of doubt squirm their way into the back of his mind. However, he ignored them and pushed the door to his bedroom ajar.

“Ah,” Sherlock mused, stepping in over the threshold. He maneuvered himself around John, taking in the state of the room.

Neat, organized, uncluttered. John didn’t own many things, but he had certainly acquired a few odds and ends since he’d moved in. Sherlock spotted a lone charger (John’s laptop: downstairs. Previously used by Sherlock) on the desk at the far end of the room. There were no photos on the walls or on the dressers (in a stack, in a shoebox beneath the bed) and he saw very few personal effects (John was not detached, he was merely accustomed to living with very little). It wasn’t the first time he’d been in the other man’s room, but it was the first time he was in here both uninjured and with John’s permission (John didn’t need to know that).

Sherlock perched himself at the edge of the mattress, rumpling the perfectly-made, military-approved bed. He turned his gaze back on the other, who, this time, looked vaguely uncertain. Not nervous, exactly. Anticipatory? Sherlock frowned.

“So, ah,” John felt himself lose the burst of confidence he’d had when he was downstairs. Sherlock rarely intimidated him (rather, _no one_ intimidated him very much. Unless they had a weapon of some sorts. Pointed at his important bits). But here, in the bedroom, in a very intimate setting with a very specific intent-- John found that he was unusually overcome with performance anxiety. It was strange for him, because he wasn’t really one to doubt himself. Doubt got you killed in the battlefield. It was instinct that he normally relied on.

John cleared his throat. “So how should we do this?” It sounded very odd, voicing it aloud. He’d never _articulated_ what he was going to do in bed. He always just-- did it. But he supposed it was important here. Especially when he was waving around-- good god-- a riding crop.

“I don’t know, John. You tell me.” Sherlock appeared patient, which was perplexing in and of itself, because Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man. But it was familiar; his placating tone was often used to prove a point at crime scenes. Was he trying to prove something here? To John?

“Well.” John felt his collar heat at his next words, but he forced himself to say them nonetheless. “I asked you earlier if you wanted to use this again. So I’m assuming you’d like to use this on me--”

“No,” Sherlock cut in. He stood then, and John realized just how absurdly _tall_ the other man was. (To be honest, he was always intuitively _aware_ Sherlock was a humanoid giraffe; but it was one thing to know it, and another thing to be subjected to it).

“You’ll be using it on me,” Sherlock said (commanded). And in the next second, John’s ability for higher-level thinking was lost as he watched long, slender fingers pluck neatly at the buttons of his suit jacket. John stared dumbly, watching the black outer layer pull away, revealing a greater swathe of metallic grey fabric. Sherlock turned briefly to drape the coat neatly over a dresser. (Sherlock, John had come to notice, was meticulous about two things: his appearance and his experiments. Everything else fell by the wayside. Despite Sherlock’s disdain for most sins in life, he was a very vain man.)

“Let me do that,” John interjected, tossing the crop onto his bed and reaching for the third button on the other’s shirt. Sherlock’s lips quirked, but the expression went unnoticed as John carefully pushed each button loose. Slowly, more and more of that ethereal, porcelain-white flesh came into view. John felt a bit like a thief, unwrapping a package that wasn’t necessarily meant for him. (Not to mention, he felt the accompanying thrill that came with doing something he really shouldn’t be (caught) doing.)

Sherlock remained still as John tugged the shirt from the his trousers and finished unbuttoning the rest of the shirt. He pushed it off Sherlock’s shoulders and the detective lifted his hands, wrists turned upward, allowing John to undo the cuffs. Once loosened, John slid each sleeve off. He folded the shirt and dropped it atop the discarded jacket.

When he turned back, Sherlock’s arms were at his sides, his pose relaxed and his breathing even. Though, with a bit of scrutiny, John could tell the rise and fall of the man’s chest had become increasingly faster; and, he was pleased to note, Sherlock’s pupils were dilated as well. He felt a subsequent swell of pride at that.

John reached out, fingers tapping on Sherlock’s belt. He paused. “Trousers too?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Trousers too,” John muttered, pulling the strip of leather through the buckle. He was a bit faster in undressing Sherlock this time (though John refused to admit it was own impatience spurring him on). As John crouched, he made the other sit so he could remove Sherlock’s shoes and socks. John placed the trousers with the rest of the clothing. He straightened, staring blatantly (no need to be shy at this point, they knew what they were up to) at Sherlock’s simple, dark grey pants. He hesitated, then decided to leave them on.

“Lie back,” John instructed, but not before darting forward and retrieving the crop. Sherlock did so, and it sent a jolt through John at the rare demonstration of obedience.

It was a small bed, but big enough for one occupant, comfortable enough for two. It made staying close to Sherlock easy, no matter which side of the mattress he chose to occupy. The crop made it even easier.

“I’ve never done this before,” John admitted, tapping the tapered end of the rod to the bed frame. Sherlock stretched, a magnificent study of bone and sinew and muscle. John momentarily found his breath stolen as he took in the expanse of white, unmarred flesh. Sherlock really was as surreal as he’d imagined.

“That’s alright. We’ll call it a learning experience.” Sherlock appeared undisturbed. He raised his (long, _long_ ) arms above his head, winding his fingers around the slats of his headboard. He held the bars loosely in his fists and turned his gaze up at John. “Well?” He prompted.

John nodded, lifting the crop. He inhaled deeply, readying himself, building up the strength in his arm. Though he was left-handed, he had to use his right arm for want of avoiding the strain in his injured shoulder. But it wouldn’t make a remarkable difference-- John knew how to equally distribute his strength.

Biting his lower lip, John swung, a distinct, thin _swish_ cutting through the air as his arm was brought down.

Only to stop, just shy of a scant inches above the flesh of Sherlock’s tensed thighs. It occurred to John then something Sherlock had said earlier. _“Sex is only an aspect of BDSM.”_ He lowered his arm and Sherlock looked affronted.

“Why did you--”

“Are we going to have sex?” John spoke over the detective’s question. He’d like to know before they started. He wasn’t sure if he was going to physically _do_ anything different, but he sure as hell was going to _feel_ it.

Sherlock fell silent, but it wasn’t the outraged quietude John had been expecting. He appeared contemplative.

“That is in the realm of possibilities.”

John nodded. “Okay,” he said, before he properly thwacked Sherlock hard across the thighs.

The detective jerked, though he was silent, his muscles suddenly thrown into stark relief. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his noise and his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened on the bars. In contrast, a thin, rosy-pink stripe colored in place where John had hit him. Already, he could see the flesh rising in an impressive welt.

In the moment of silence that followed, John listened for Sherlock’s breathing. It was still even, though quickened. Deep, measured. Good.

“Tell me when you want me to stop,” John said carefully, though he didn’t trust Sherlock’s judgment. The man could put up with nearly anything, and was often oblivious to his own body’s various warnings. John would just have to be observant.

He raised his arm again, this time higher, before swinging it down and licking a red line diagonally across Sherlock’s torso. This time, Sherlck didn’t move, though he visibly tensed. A muscle in his jaw jumped and he looked intensely focused. John lifted the crop.

Sherlock breathed steadily, timing it so that when he felt the fiery flash of pain, he exhaled on it. This time, he watched a red line appear on his lower stomach, just above the waistband of his pants. His hold on John’s bed tightened. Along with the jolts of pain, he felt a low simmer of pleasure. It made him want to squirm, though he fought off the urge.

His skin felt cool in the air of the room, save for the very specific spots where John struck burning brands along his body. He knew the evidence of his arousal would become noticeable soon (estimation: six more hits for John to notice. Nine before he did anything about it). Until then, Sherlock contented himself with the white-hot bursts that exploded over his stomach, his thighs, and once (lighter than the others) on his chest.

John was breathing deeply by the time the crop landed for the sixth time. He wasn’t tired, but he was definitely feeling the exertion. He dropped the rod long enough so that he could pull off his jumper and drop it to the floor. He took it up a again, smiling at Sherlock.

“Alright?” He trailed the flat end of the crop over the first welt he’d landed. Sherlock made a very soft, breathy sound in his throat and his thigh twitched, but he didn’t pull away.

“Fine. Continue.”

John nodded and dropped the leather over Sherlock’s thighs again, this time crossing over the brand that already marked its place. Seven whippings and the detective’s breathing was decidedly ragged. Sherlock was pulling in quick, shallow breaths, but he didn’t seem panicked. In fact, other than the brief stiffening of muscles, he relaxed the instant John pulled the crop away. It was fascinating in baffling ways.

This time, John didn’t remove the tool, but instead allowed it to slide up, tracing each red line he’d created. Sherlock made the same breathy sound as he did earlier, but it was louder this time, more drawn out. John watched as Sherlock arched just minimally into the caress. John imagined that the cool, smooth texture of the leather would be soothing to Sherlock’s burning skin. He lifted the tapered end and playfully let it slap over one of the thicker marks. Sherlock’s stomach caved, and his arms tightened so quickly, John heard his headboard creak.

“Still alright?” John asked again. He lifted his arm and struck a bruise onto the other’s lower thighs before Sherlock could answer.

“Yes,” Sherlock hissed through his teeth. John lowered his gaze, counting the three marks on Sherlock’s legs. They were angry and scarlet, bright over the pale flesh. John’s eyes traveled up and-- oh.

Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered the moment he saw that John had noticed. He tensed again, though the doctor made no move to raise his arm. Instead, the crop touched his knee and slid up, gliding over the raised bits of flesh. It didn’t stop as it slid chillingly over his heated skin. It traveled higher, gliding over the thin flesh of his inner thigh, then moving on to the delicate protrusion of his hipbone. Sherlock found his breathing strained as the crop slipped between his legs, the sensations muted through the cotton.

“Hm,” John hummed, as if he were a particularly interesting program on the telly. Sherlock bit his tongue, willing himself to stay silent as John moved the crop back and forth over (and over and over and _over_ ) his groin. His arms trembled, his cheeks darkening with a flush as his hips fought to remain on the bed.

A moment later, John pivoted his arm back, watching the same ripple of tension go through Sherlock’s muscles just before the crop made contact with his stomach. This time, John elicited a soft, bitten-off grunt, released just a second after the bright _slap_ of leather on flesh. However, he didn’t lift the rod away as he normally did. He mimicked his previous motion, dragging the strip up Sherlock’s torso. The detective remained rigid as John swiped the flat end over his nipple. Sherlock sucked in a noisy breath, watching the crop lift away. He shut his eyes then, chewing on his bottom lip, only to release it with a startled gasp at the spark of pain and the cool slide-scratch of the crop on his heated skin.

“Sherlock.” John sounded stern. The tone sent a flurry of thoughts through Sherlock’s mind (firm, but not cruel. Used to being obeyed. Expected full cooperation. _Soldier_ ). Sherlock opened his eyes. He was surprised to see that John had discarded his shirt, though he was still holding the crop.

“Pay attention.” John landed a punishing blow to his torso again, nearly exactly over one of the earlier welts he’d inflicted. Sherlock made an involuntary sound, his chest heaving from the hit. His arms were visibly shaking now. John ‘hm’ed again, moving the crop lower, prodding almost absently at the waistband. Sherlock’s thighs parted, almost of their own accord. His pants were very clearly tented.

John warred with himself, his own trousers mercilessly tight and uncomfortable. He wanted to drop the pretense and just climb up on the bed and press Sherlock down into the mattress. He wanted to touch the red-branded skin with his own hands, without the obstruction of the crop. He wanted to trace the stripes with his lips, soothe the pain away with his tongue. But he wasn’t sure how the game was played. He didn’t know when it ended; he didn’t know the rules.

“John.” The doctor’s gaze flicked up from where he’d been staring mindlessly at Sherlock’s thighs. “Pay attention.” A corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards into a smirk, and John dropped the crop onto the bed.

The detective shifted, stretching his legs, flattening them under John as he clambered up to meet him. Sherlock’s arms remained taught on the slats above his head, the muscles in his shoulders and biceps impressively prominent.

John straddled Sherlock’s thighs, his palms flat and warm over the other’s stomach. He traced the welts with his fingers, marveling at the almost glowing vermillion of the bruises against the immaculate white of Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock moved to lower one hand, but John moved quickly, his grip hard on Sherlock’s elbow. “No. Keep it up.” John applied pressure, and Sherlock obeyed.

“Are you just going to look at me then?” Sherlock huffed, jostling his legs so John had to catch himself on his chest.

John snorted. “You’re so impatient. What about foreplay?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes so hard it would’ve been insulting if John didn’t know him so well. “That _was_ foreplay. Come on, John. One would think you’re a boring lover.”

Sherlock was taunting him, he knew it. But the most infuriating thing about Sherlock was that he made it so John could hardly resist rising to the bait.

“I’m a _fantastic_ lover, thank you,” John shot back. He raised himself into a full sitting position. Lowering his gaze, he followed the line of red stripes to the lowest one, where it almost met fabric. Sherlock’s hips squirmed tenuously, and John smiled. He flattened his palm over the bulge in Sherlock’s pants, feeling the heat and hardness against his fingers.

Sherlock sucked in a noisy breath, his stomach rising and falling in quick succession. His eyelids fluttered, and his cheeks flushed a darker pink. John bit his lip, feeling his own face grow hot. Carefully, he squeezed, moving his hand up, feeling Sherlock’s shape through the cotton. Even still, Sherlock remained silent save for faint, gasping breaths.

“Are you normally this quiet?”

“Are you normally this slow? Sherlock countered, testy with unresolved lust. John smiled toothily and wiggled his fingers underneath the tight waistband of Sherlock’s pants. He shucked them down as far as they could go, which was only about halfway down his thighs. (John refused to move away even for a second.)

“Be nice,” John admonished. Then he promptly destroyed whatever retort Sherlock was undoubtedly going to throw at him as he wrapped his fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock. He felt the other man tense beneath him, growing rigid even further as he stroked upwards.

“Oh I didn’t--” Sherlock’s eyes were wide and surprised as they stared down at John’s hand.

“Didn’t what?” John swiped his thumb over the glands, where the foreskin had pulled back. He felt a dewy wetness spread over the head.

“Callouses,” Sherlock panted, his head falling back against the pillow. John let out a bark of laughter, enjoying this new, disheveled version of Sherlock.

John found himself fixated between looking at Sherlock’s face and down at his hand. His fingers tightened, and he moved his hand faster, rubbing his thumb over the frenulum. Sherlock shuddered all over, lips parted, a soft, barely-audible moan seeping through. A burst of lust hit John so hard in the stomach he nearly doubled over. He breathed deeply, determined to make Sherlock babble incoherently by the end of this.

“Callouses,” Sherlock repeated at the ceiling. His arms had begun trembling again, and he was gasping for air between words. “From your gun. Didn’t-- didn’t consider-- _oh_.” John rubbed his thumb over the head again, smearing precome down the length of Sherlock’s cock. He felt Sherlock’s hips attempt to buck, but he had no leverage with John occupying his lap.

“Do you ever stop thinking?” John fumbled for the button and zip of his own trousers, fingers clumsy with lust. Sherlock watched him with hooded eyes. “No.” John laughed breathlessly, pushing himself onto his knees and releasing Sherlock to shove his trousers and pants down with both hands. Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose at the loss, but otherwise remained unmoved.

John lowered himself again, this time scooting himself closer. Sherlock hissed, his thighs jumping beneath the doctor. John froze, looking surprised.

“The welts,” Sherlock said between gritted teeth. John looked thoughtful, then ground himself down, allowing the rough material of his jeans to scratch over the sensitive bruises he’d lain. Sherlock jerked and made a throaty sound, his breaths suddenly loud and uneven.

“You’re a masochist,” John said, watching the bob of Sherlock’s Adam’s apple.

“Very good, John. Soon you may-- may even be able to surpass _my_ deductive skills,” Sherlock breathed. His pale eyes glittered in the light of the room, and his smile was just mean enough to make John press the blunt edge of his nails into the brands on Sherlock’s stomach. He relished in the low grunt the other gave.

John smiled widely and sweetly, the kind of expression he gave when he was receiving patients. “You flatter me.”

Sherlock made a sound that might have been a laugh, but it was choked off at the end as John wrapped his fingers around his cock again. This time, John’s strong fingers wound around both of them, and it took all Sherlock had to keep from reaching down and making John _move_ the way he wanted.

John’s shoulders slumped forward, and he supported himself by his right arm, planted and locked by Sherlock’s head. It brought their chests closer together, and Sherlock found himself staring straight down at the mottled scar on John’s shoulder. He’d seen it numerous times before-- they were two blokes that frequently got injured, sharing an apartment; it was inevitable that they’d see each other naked at some point-- but it was different at this angle, in this context. For one, he’d never had his prick pressed up against John’s before with John’s scar straight in his line of sight.

“You’re thinking again,” John gasped. The scar wrinkled and stretched as John pulled them both, sending a starburst of pleasure up Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the bars, biting hard on his lower lip to keep himself in check. He found himself wishing wildly that John would move just a bit closer so he could touch that scar with his mouth. It was ridiculous, but he imagined that it would taste like sand, like the Afghanistan sun, like gunpowder, like John’s will to live. He wanted to tear into it with his teeth with such ferocity that he’d create a new scar on top of it, one that John would never be able to look at without thinking of Sherlock Holmes.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John said, voice hoarse and rough around the edges. Sherlock looked up and saw John lick his lips and chew on the lower one. It was something he often did before and after he spoke. He did it when he was thinking or when he was frustrated. He did it so infuriatingly often, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice.

“Kiss me,” Sherlock demanded, tilting his chin up like a child. He didn’t have the leverage to close the distance between them (approximately forty-three centimeters) even if he stretched his neck out as far as he could (approximately eighteen centimeters if he strained).

John looked momentarily surprised; then he smiled, bending his arm and lowering himself to meet Sherlock’s lips.

Kissing Sherlock was an entirely new and exciting and _strange_ experience. Sherlock kissed like he was studying, analyzing. He traced John’s lips with the tip of his tongue before sliding in and running it along the blunt edges of John’s teeth. He kissed like he read it in a textbook somewhere, methodical and steady.

John huffed out a laugh, turning his head and making the kiss properly _messy_. He’d had enough lovers in his life to know he was a good kisser. He’d been told he was, and hell if he wasn’t going to demonstrate that now.

Dropping his arm, John supported himself by his elbow, allowing their chests to press against each other in a long, searing bloom of heat. He bent himself closer, licking past Sherlock’s lips, swiping his tongue against the other’s and brushing it along the bumpy roof of Sherlock’s mouth. John gnawed on Sherlock’s bottom lip and sucked on his tongue. He hummed his appreciation when he felt the detective nearly falter in surprise, as if John had sufficiently ruined his step-by-step method of kissing.

When John pulled away for a breath, Sherlock made a displeased sound, chasing the doctor’s lips fruitlessly until the strain in his neck grew to be too much. Sherlock dropped his head back with a grunt. He was panting and his lips were swollen and red and slick. John beamed, dropping another light kiss to the corner of the other’s lips, unable to help himself.

“Mm,” Sherlock’s eyes rolled to the ceiling, expression thoughtful. It was unnerving that he could be naked and gasping for breath and _still_ have the wherewithal to deduce something from kissing John Watson. John made a face and squeezed his hand around the head of Sherlock’s cock, making the detective’s eyes slide shut and utter a broken groan. John mentally gave himself a point.

“Can’t you just enjoy sex for what it is?” John lowered his head, biting sharply at Sherlock’s jaw to get his attention.

“No,” Sherlock answered petulantly, though he didn’t complain when John pushed their cocks together again, stroking slowly, steadily. John’s headboard creaked in protest when John rubbed them together, spreading the wetness beading at the head of Sherlock’s cock to his own. John panted loudly into the join of Sherlock’s shoulder and neck, dampening the skin there.

“Faster,” Sherlock said to the air, his hips pushing up impatiently. John scraped his teeth along the sharp outline of the man’s collarbone. He tasted the sweaty-salty hollow of the other’s throat, dipping his tongue inside and trailing wet, sloppy kisses along the skin. Lower, his hand quickened its pace, less about listening to Sherlock and more about self-gratification. God, it felt _good_ , and it had been a long time since he’d gotten off. _Too long_ , his mind told him.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his breath stirring the short hair at John’s temple. John looked up, only to see Sherlock’s surprised, confused face. His mouth was open, clearly about to say something, but it appeared that he’d forgotten. John grinned and chuckled, bumping his nose against the other’s cheek. He brushed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s eyelids, which fluttered at the fleeting contact. Call John a sentimental man, but he was going to take full advantage of this opportunity to touch Sherlock as much as possible.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock repeated, though he was insistent this time, urgent. His hips tried to thrust, but they were pressed down from John’s weight.

“I know,” John murmured into Sherlock’s mouth. His movements grew frantic, his fingers slick as they stroked faster. It was inelegant, and John had lost any semblance of rhythm, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He failed to return John’s clumsy kisses as Sherlock simply panted and made soft, surprised _oh_ sounds.

Sherlock twisted beneath the doctor, the tendons in his arms stretched tight, and his chest was rising and falling with a rapidity that would have concerned John at any other time. Now though, John only felt pleased and triumphant and _god_ Sherlock looked like something out of his dreams. He pushed himself up, giving himself more room to move, though he kept his forehead pressed to the other’s. Sherlock’s rampant curls were matted and wild over the pillow, and his eyes were shut tight. He was alternately biting his lips shut and gasping open-mouthed, as if unable to control himself. John felt his own pulse stutter and skip, feeling Sherlock grow almost frenetic.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John murmured, their lips brushing with every word. He inhaled as Sherlock exhaled, the scant air between them feeling charged. John twisted his wrist, scratching the blunt nail of his thumb just below the head of Sherlock’s cock and he felt the detective unravel, seam by seam. Sherlock’s arms shook, a low, guttural moan vibrating through his chest as wetness spilled over John’s fingers. John slowed his movements, stroking gently until Sherlock’s nose wrinkled and his hips twitched.

“ _Oh_ ,” John breathed into Sherlock’s chest, his head dropping forward to rest above the other’s collar.

“Oh indeed,” Sherlock agreed, staring wild-eyed at the ceiling. After a moment, he gingerly lowered his arms, wincing when the new position pulled at the muscles in his shoulders. Experimentally, he shook them out, grunting in pain when it strained the ligaments. He dropped one arm down to his side and the other awkwardly, though adamantly, fell around John’s waist, as if it was daring John to push it off. When Sherlock received no complaint, he tightened his grip.

There was a few seconds of silence. Then, “You still have an erection,” Sherlock announced. John sighed, then laughed, then muffled his startled groan at the touch of cool fingers to his cock. He nearly choked on his tongue when he felt them wrap around the base and stroke upwards. The grip was too loose and much too _slow_ , and John found himself whining and thrusting into Sherlock’s fist.

“You’ll have to instruct me because it seems you’d like to ejaculate soon,” Sherlock advised, and John closed his eyes tightly and tried to tune the man out. “I could experiment and see what you like, but that could take longer than you’d appreci--”

“Sherlock, for heaven’s sake, _shut up and get me off_ ,” John growled into the other’s neck, his hips clumsy and impatient and demanding. He had all but collapsed on top of Sherlock, his supporting arm splayed out beside the other’s head and his sticky hand curled around the detective’s ribs. John’s fingers spasmed and dug into red-pink-white flesh when Sherlock properly gripped him and _pulled_ , fast and hard and _good_.

It didn’t take long before John was stifling a shout into Sherlock’s sore shoulder, adding to the mess between them. Sherlock made another curious sound, pulling his hand away slowly, gently. John sucked in lungfuls of breath, his thighs quivering over Sherlock’s. It wasn’t until he finally regained whatever bits of his mind he’d lost that he realized Sherlock had almost shyly hooked his messy fingers over John’s.

“Who did you use it on?”

“Sorry?” Sherlock sounded sleepy and perplexed, and John mentally scored another point for himself, exhausted as he was.

“The crop. You said you used it before. Who was it?” John nuzzled his nose into Sherlock’s throat with every intention of staying if the detective let him. If he didn’t, then John was content with the idea of forcing post-coital cuddling. He wasn’t above employing unscrupulous measures. He _liked_ being hugged and he liked being warm. Damn Sherlock if he thought he was going to ruin that for John.

“Ah. A corpse,” Sherlock answered. John’s brow furrowed, momentarily concerned.

“For a case?”

“No, John. Confirming popular belief and Sergeant Donovan, I am a necrophiliac.” Sherlock’s sarcasm was scathing.

John snorted and pondered the possibilities of hearing the term ‘necrophiliac’ as pillow talk from anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock quite suddenly then sluggishly attempted to roll over, his limbs weighed down by tired satisfaction. “Speaking of necrophilia, I should--”

“ _Don’t_ finish that sentence. And don’t move, I’m comfortable.” John settled himself more firmly over Sherlock’s torso, stretching his legs out behind him.

“John _,_ I--”

“No. _No_.” John determinedly tucked his head beneath Sherlock’s chin. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly.

Sherlock thrashed a bit, jostling John, and for a second he thought the detective was going to throw him off. But he only shifted them far enough to the side so that Sherlock could throw the untethered half of the blankets over them.

“Fine. I’ll just leave once you’re asleep,” Sherlock retorted spitefully.

“Good plan,” John agreed.


End file.
